The Raiment of Lean Winter
by SnowSybaris
Summary: Leigh Grimson, reporter for the Veritaserum, didn't expect to be dragged into pureblood intrigues when he attended a party hosted by an old schoolmate... but he was. And there are people he's going to have to rescue, from the life he left behind. HPSS
1. Chapter 1

**The Raiment of Lean Winter**

_Summary: Leigh Grimson, reporter for the Veritaserum, didn't expect to be dragged into pureblood intrigues when he attended a party hosted by an old schoolmate... but he was. And there are people he's going to have to rescue. HPSS._

Updates not promised, have just recovered from a bout of really terrifying writer's block, alert if interested, don't get too attached. That's all.

(glowers) Everything after OotP didn't happen. In my AU, Harry Potter was a rational, sane, non-obsessive, calm teenager, and grew up to be a rational, sane, intelligent man. With no interest whatsoever in Ginny fucking Weasley.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and co. are not mine, they belong to people like Juxian Tang(TM), Mia Ugly(TM), Telanu(TM)... and what's her name... Roling. Or something.

* * *

Prologue

_

* * *

Time. Truly an odd thing- a Muggle scientist once said that it was only an illusion- people tend to quote that often, but no one truly believes it. Who can? Time moves on, its flow cannot be altered or reversed or stopped, and we are caught in it, mortal specks in its everlasting stream, living out our lives like mayflies, except with the better sex, plus drugs and magic._

_However._

_Subjects who have used a Time Turner or similar devices repetitively report a feeling of disintegration- not of themselves, either magical or psychological, but their surroundings- common symptoms include repeated deja-vu, environmental abnormalities like reversed or accelerating plant growth, friends who seem to age too rapidly, too slowly, and there are even some who report the ability of prophecy, although this has been disproved._

_This has been attributed to psychosis..._

Leigh threw down his quill in frustration, blowing at his reddened, callused middle finger. His thoughts raced five times faster than his hand could relay his ideas, and he inevitably lost focus on what he was writing, too busy tracing out his next fifty steps. He glanced longingly at the corner of the room, where his laptop lay, wrapped in about ten layers of anti-electrointerference sheets. He could take it out into some Muggle park and write there, outside of the field magic had created for itself in the Leaky Cauldron, the residue of countless small spells that interfered very badly with advanced Muggle technology.

But it was blisteringly cold outside, and Warming charms could only do so much- he also made a point of not using much magic near his computer, which was already nearing its breakpoint- these days it sizzled dangerously when he brought it into the office- and he was tired. Flinging away the quill- he had forgotten how to use those, too, and his handwriting was all over the place- why not pens? What the hell was wrong with pens? Good, reliable things, don't have to dip it in ink, don't have to worry about it snapping when you sit down wrong (or at least, the pens Leigh tended to prefer), don't smell of birds. He'd have to talk to Tom about them.

Pens were cheaper, too, Leigh reflected as he changed into his bedclothes. Although he did tend to use the expensive ones- the sort he wouldn't have dared to buy when he was a teenager, but now could afford to. He really didn't have anything to do with his money, anyway, and these days it was piling up something disturbing...

He turned his thoughts to the trial tomorrow- the one he'd cut his time in Guam short to cover. Payne wanted him on this one, and Leigh had agreed.

Draco Malfoy was being subjected to another set of trials- Leigh had rather thought that the ones in 2001 had been the last, although his news had always been late by a week during that year, as he had been in South America. He'd followed it with some interest.

Poor fellow, though- he'd had a son recently, by his wife Astoria Malfoy, nee Greengrass. Named him something unfortunate, too, although Leigh couldn't quite remember. He'd have hell when he went to school, if he went to Hogwarts- Leigh had just had one professor who hated him for what his father had done, and that had been hard enough...

Shaking his head, he slipped into sleep.

* * *

"Mr. Grimson." Tom greeted him when he came down the next day. Leigh nodded back, noting the renovations were nearly complete- the thick, aged oak tables were all gone. He'd sort of miss them, but not the part where he'd keep slamming his knees onto the undersides of the table when he misjudged the depth.

"Nice." he said, briefly.

Tom smiled toothily, and offered him a menu.

After breakfast, Leigh checked out and strode off to the Ministry's entrance. There were already a two reporters there, who gave him nary a glance, as Leigh was in Muggle clothes. There were thirty minutes or so left until Draco Malfoy came out.

Idiots, Leigh thought scornfully. Going to mob him? Think he's going to like that? You ask me for all my tricks, and when I tell you, you don't believe it. I told you not to bring photographers, there's nothing more offputting to a... famous figure than someone aiming a flash at your face. Disconcerting. And Malfoy was a showoff, but he wouldn't appreciate this sort of attention. Leigh remembered that he had been intensely private, despite everything.

He walked past the entrance, where a few Muggles were already giving curious glances towards the lingering two, wondering what story they hoped to find in front of a blank wall, but they soon slid away- the notice-me-not charms were rather effective, and passerbys soon found themselves thinking of warm tea at home in front of a crackling hearth (and rather wondering why, because they didn't have one- the charms were rather outdated).

Malfoy wouldn't- couldn't- Apparate here, but he'd find a nice alley to do it, and the swarm of reporters would hide the sound nicely when he went. Well, all Leigh had to do was...

He conjured a chair and desk while he was waiting. People gave him some odd looks- a man, well dressed, working away at an expensive computer on a well-polished mahogany desk and a comfortable swivel chair... in a cul-de-sac, complete with garbage cans and a pair of starved feline eyes blinking at him from the corner. Their attention curved away, though, and they began to think about their clothes. A subject, Leigh thought, that was always safe to use. People were always interested in themselves.

He should talk to the Ministry warders too, really. Just a friendly note. Or not.

He could hear babble break out, half an hour later, and grinned to himself. He was sure he wasn't wrong- Malfoy would come here. He'd done it, too, when he was seventeen and eighteen, a witness for a never-ending stream of trials of various Death Eaters- and if Malfoy got away, well, no harm in it- he wouldn't talk to anyone else, either.

Leigh wouldn't have been so sure about this any other time, but this trial was about his mother- Malfoy would be touchy.

Payne- his superior at the _Veritaserum_, would disapprove of his tactics- he was a jostler, too, their slang for the aggressive hound type that practically fought for answers and interviews. It worked, too, but he wasn't too popular... He would say that Leigh was assuming too much- Malfoy might go another way, he might talk to someone else (which was worse), he might use another entrance... and he would be right. But Leigh's instincts were rarely off the mark, a fact that all of his colleagues in the office had come, some grudgingly, to accept.

There was _clopclopclop_ sound of very expensive footwear drumming on the pavement as the wearer tried to get away with as much dignity possible intact, and yells and questions- Malfoy was, after all, the Last Death Eater- there was a lot of interest in this case. Leigh closed his eyes, and felt a ripple in his wards as the first person came through, and the solid thrum as the rest of the crowd slammed into it, unable to get through. He heard the alarmed murmurs of Muggles.

Hah.

A second later, Draco Malfoy turned the corner- and stopped short.

Leigh gave him a smile- not the wide one he reserved for friends, but the slight, sly quirk of the lips he found that certain people approved of. "Hello." he said.

Draco Malfoy's expression shuttered, and his hand drew into his pocket. Leigh held up his hands innocently. "You can Apparate away if you want, the wards don't prevent that."

"I think I shall." Malfoy drawled, but took a step closer, instead.

"Congratulations on your son." Leigh said, making sure nothing showed on his face but mild sincerity.

Malfoy nodded once, more like a jerk. His hand had not left his pocket. His eyes were on the logo on Leigh's shirt, the silver outlines of a vial crossed with a single teasel, on a blue background. "You're from the _Veritaserum_."

"You read it?" Leigh said.

"Sometimes." Malfoy's hand, in his pocket, had relaxed. His gray eyes darted up to study Leigh's face intently, and for one second unease struck him- had he been too sentimental in choosing to keep most of his face? He had shifted his jaw and cheekbones, and those were all the permanent changes he had made to himself- he had found out that superficial touches on his most prominent features- his trademark glasses, his untidy hair, and the scar, of course, were enough to fool people who didn't know him very well. And now he had very, very few people left who knew him very well, and with a startling sadness that settled in his stomach like a rock, he realized that Malfoy might be one of those few.

But Malfoy showed no sign of recognition- he instead casually looked behind him, where most of the reporters had left in disgust, although a few were still taking pictures of his backside in a rather determined fashion. Leigh snorted as Malfoy scooted into the alley, looking around in disgust.

Leigh stood up (ignoring Malfoy's small start) and folded his laptop, vanishing the desk and chair after wrapping it up in protective layers again. He really would have to change his computer soon. "Well," he said, at the same time Malfoy said "I know you-".

They fell silent for a second, looking at each other. Malfoy took it upon himself to go first. "You're Grimson, aren't you? My- my wife likes your writing."

"Ah." Leigh said, a bit puzzled.

"Your books, not your articles." Malfoy said, a little stiffly. "I- read your articles."

It took him several seconds to puzzle out that Malfoy was trying to compliment him, and he couldn't stop his smile. "Oh." Leigh said. "Well, it seems a little awkward to introduce myself, then, but-" he laughed, a little bubbling amused sound that Malfoy seemed to take well- "Leigh Grimson."

"Muggleborn?" Malfoy said, and his voice was frigidly polite.

"Halfblood." Leigh said, and his voice had lost a few degrees as well.

"I was simply asking." Malfoy said, and there was a hint of defensive child in his movements as he shuffled his left foot a few inches, one that Leigh doubted many would have been able to detect.

"All right." Leigh said, his voice devoid of any anger, and Malfoy seemed to relax a little. "You know, the Prophet's going to have an article- on the second page, I reckon- about how you..." Leigh closed his eyes, thinking- Thicknesse was covering the Malfoy case, these days, and he would word it... "_Hotfooted_ out of the area as soon as you saw the throng of eager truth-seekers..."

"Don't, don't..." Malfoy knew as well as he did that if he didn't make a statement- to anyone- then all the news available would about his latest would be about his escape.

"He'll use 'the evasive blond', you know."

"I know."

"And 'petite'."

Leigh stifled a grin. He had him.

* * *

Half an hour later found him in the company of a sullen Draco Malfoy in some small, expensive Muggle cafe. Leigh had bought him a macchiato, for his troubles, which Malfoy seemed to take well enough.

"You don't take notes." Malfoy noted abruptly, after all the sordid details of the trial had been marched out and clarified, and Malfoy had made a few ambiguous statements about his feelings on the matter. The words 'regret' and 'youth' were used a lot.

"No. I use a recorder." Leigh said.

Malfoy seemed to know what that was, and he frowned. "I hope this wasn't a mistake." The comment wasn't aimed at himself.

No one threatened Leigh. People couldn't. There was nothing they could threaten him _with_, something several of his rivals had found out- the painful way- when they'd tried to dig up nasty things on him. And Leigh didn't think Draco Malfoy particularly wanted the difficulty in his life that Leigh could dish out, so he presumed that it hadn't really been a threat, and kept smiling on in a friendly fashion. "I'm sure it wasn't."

Malfoy drained his macchiato through the pink straw. Leigh watched his face, the pale lashes, the pink lips, taking down details methodically.

They both stood up a minute later, and Malfoy stilled, sweeping Leigh's body with a contemplative look. Leigh stilled his body into neutrality, and met Malfoy's eyes when they completed their rounds. There was a lazy smile on those lips.

So. It was _true_, then...

He'd always known Astoria Greengrass had been an arranged marriage, but not that Malfoy batted for the other team. Or both, maybe. He had no interest in sleeping with him, but gave him a friendly smile anyway, hefting the bag where his laptop and recorder (still whirring) was stored.

"I'm having a little celebration on the seventeenth," he brought up casually, and didn't continue.

Leigh filled in the blank for him- "In celebration of winning the case?" he said.

"My lawyer assures me that it'll be over by the eleventh, which really means the fifteenth." Malfoy said. "After your article... you might be... welcome."

Dear- dear god- Leigh felt an incredulous look climbing, and forced it into a cautious one. "Ah." he said faintly.

It wasn't an invitation- not yet, that would come after the article- and Leigh was certain it would come. And Malfoy knew that if he asked, Leigh would accept. 'Little celebration' indeed- on Malfoy scale that was third page, at least. A chance to actually _be_ there- it wasn't like he was _groveling_ for the chance, oh no, but it would be a chance- well, not that he needed a raise, or anything- and he wasn't even that ambitious, he'd just joined the _Veritaserum_ vowing to be at least the one honest reporter in the wizarding world-

He paused too long, and Malfoy's expression was sliding into cold not-anger, so he hastily said, "Well, if I'm welcome-" he tried to find a way to continue that wasn't flirtatious- "I'll try to come." Well, that was direct.

Malfoy gave a faint smirk.

They parted ways, and Leigh almost forgot to turn off his recorder before he Apparated.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you for the reviews. The first 3000 words of this chapter were born in two hours because of you. (wry look) I really didn't expect to continue this, you see. I'm in better form in this one.

* * *

**The Raiment of Lean Winter: **Chapter 1

* * *

"Mr. Raleigh. We haven't seen you for a while."

The tone wasn't accusing, merely curious- Brenda had far too many patients under her care to keep any serious track of their visitors. Leigh shrugged, thinking of the hectic last two weeks- after Malfoy's trial, he'd been busy milking all his contacts for details on the latest inflow of illegal magical materials, which took a while- he had a lot of contacts, most of which even his colleagues didn't know about.

"Work, you know." he said, taking a thick dark blue file from the stack on the table. Brenda didn't give him a single look, her eyes still scanning her paperwork. Leigh flipped it open, scanning the last two weeks- medication, sleep cycles, physical therapy, dream monitoring- the thing was that the healers were run to the ground as it was, and no one really bothered to take a look at the files after they were compiled. No one gave a damn. Wasn't their fault, but Leigh felt resentment building up with every page he turned that was white-crisp without a single note in the margins, a thumbprint, or a bent corner.

Healer's note (2003, February 5th): Nil

Healer's note (2003, February 8th) Nil

Healer's note (2003, February 12th) Nil

.

...All the way to Healer's note (2003, February 16th), today, nil. If one flipped back all the way to 1998, August, date of admittance, reports filled the pages to the brim- everyone on their best behavior, all that shite. And then Harry Potter had disappeared after 'vanquishing You-Know-Who' (they never phrased it any other way) in one cold swift bloody month, the reports had slowed, then stopped..

Leigh wanted to burst out about the indignity, but doing so would draw far more attention. He'd done the best he could by bribing some of the Healers here for preferential treatment- that was why the file was thick, it held records beyond the norm, including dream monitors and sleep cycles, which permanent-ward patients usually didn't get.

"I'll go in and see him, shall I?" he said, trying to keep his voice flat, closing the file after perusing it thoroughly. Brenda nodded without looking up, and said "Silicosis.".

The week's password. Leigh strode ahead.

He was wearing Muggle wear again, but had a robe slung over his shoulder- a school robe, one of his three that weren't damaged beyond repair. It was too small for him, and when he wore it he felt uncomfortably like a small child role-playing, but it always seemed to help. He liked to... well, perhaps it was just pathetic...

He stopped in front of the door, feeling a little ragged and out of sorts. He examined himself in a mirror down the hallway- it was too far to see himself, but he seemed the same, in a gray sweater and jeans, his hair swept back behind his ears and shoulders. He imagined what he would look like a friend who forgot who he was each time, a tall, tanned stranger with a too-deep voice, too-long hair, wrong face...

He donned the robe, shaking his head and entered the ward, nonverbally casting a glamour on himself as he did so.

He preferred not to, but after a few painful months he had come to learn that starting with the glamour was better than not, as he was often not recognized.

"Hallo, Ron." he said through a dry throat and with a thick tongue.

The ward was large- it was the same one he'd started off with, when he was Harry Potter's Institutionalized Friend, and everyone had felt the need to impress. When they'd tried to move him, an anonymous benefactor had insisted that he stay.

There was a four-posted bed in red and gold, and the whole room was tastefully decorated in shades of calming blue and beige. The furniture had rounded corners, and there were no sharp objects in the room. There were books, ranging from children's stories to Quidditch books to novels or volumes on magical theory, depending on what age Ron was acting at the moment- there were stuffed animals, too, although he had ached when he'd given permission to let Ron have them. Ron had been at a five or so when he'd asked, and he knew Ron at a fifteen would be dreadfully embarrassed when he realized, but...

Ron wore plain blue pyjamas- his mother had bought him to match his eyes, but sometimes he wished Molly hadn't- they did match, very well, and they shared the same blankness. It was with this same sightless intensity Ron subjected him to now, and he squirmed.

"Harry." Ron said, at last, and Harry- of course he was Harry, he was Harry in this room, the only place in the world left where he was Harry anymore, here with his last best friend- smiled in relief. Ron recognized him, and had called him 'Harry', not 'Harry Potter', so this was after-eleven Ron. "I..."

Ron looked at his sleeves, frowning a little as he plucked imaginary lint from them.

"You look older." he said, after a pause.

I'm older, of course I'm older, with or without the glamour, before or after the surgery, I was always older, I am always older. Harry closed his eyes. "How are you, Ron?"

"Fine." Ron said automatically, the response inbred in him by countless sickening Healers.

Harry made sure to move lightly and calmly as he sat down next to Ron- Ron, who was still taller, even after Harry had gained four extra years with a Time Turner, who looked at him like he was a child, a planet, and Harry was a star. It hurt. "Any nightmares?" he asked gently.

Ron stared sightlessly at the opposite wall, his mouth moving a little. Harry fought the urge to wrap his arms around him, the wasted torso and skinny arms. Years in a sunless ward- besides for the mandatory walks, Ron never went out, he didn't like the wide open spaces- had bleached his skin, until he had lost all his tan and his freckles stood out like dots of dried blood. Hospital food had killed his once-voracious appetite, and left his cheeks and eyes hollow- his hair seemed to be the only living thing about him sometimes, when Ron stared like this, a waxen statue of a saint.

"What's..." Ron licked his dry lips. "What's a nightmare?"

His eyes flickered nervously from corner to corner, or from point to point of a pentacle, a technique Harry himself had taught him when it had become clear that his Healers would do nothing useful for his anxiety except forcing potion after potion down his throat. His eyes would hurt like hell afterward, but it was a physical routine that didn't involve his limbs.

"It's a bad dream, Ron." Harry said, because he had to answer. "The kind you forget when you wake up, right? When the sun streams in through the window and you're pillow's cool from the draft and it's all calm and quiet."

"Don't treat me like a baby." Ron spat, suddenly rising. Harry sat like a chastened schoolboy, his hands clasped between his knees, his gaze trained on the carpet. He'd ordered it himself, on his travels, he'd liked the look of it, dreamy swirls of blue and white in the center, magenta and violet on one side, pitch black on another, dotted with white, misty there, sharp dark blue here... it clearly had something to do with the sky, but when you looked at it you could find no pattern, no meaning, and in the attempt to find one you lost your thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Ron." Harry said.

"Damn right you should be." Ron said, his features contorting viciously. It was a mockery to look at him, look at what should have been incandescent redheaded rage, but was only a scarecrow, pale and pulled out of proportions. "Why didn't you bring Hermione?" he said, his voice rising. "You're keeping her to yourself, aren't you? She never comes to see me! Doesn't even make excuses, even when she's being put into the ground."

Harry's insides filled with frost. "What?" he whispered.

Ron waved an irritable hand. "In my dreams, I mean." he said, and paused a little, his forehead wrinkling. "It must have been a dream, of course." he said, nodding.

Dream Monitoring (2003, February 14th- Valentine's Day, Harry's chest had ached so bad for his friend)- dreamt of Hermione Granger's funeral, 2:03 am. "I'm sorry, Ron." he repeated, his voice shriveling in the air like some dessicated dying thing. "She's- she's awfully busy, you know, alone in her lab, she's been making some wonderful breakthroughs... she asked after you..."

He made sure to emphasize the word 'alone'.

It seemed to work- Ron's breath grew more even, and after a minute he cautiously came back to sit on the bed. This time he knelt, his entire body angled towards Harry, his face wearing an expression that was too eager and hopeful for a face that large. "What did she say?" he said eagerly. "What's she doing? Are people paying attention? I bet they are, she's so smart, they probably run articles about her every day."

"Not every day," Harry felt himself lying, and resigned himself to one of those days where he wouldn't even get near to reintroducing the truth to Ron. He couldn't. He couldn't bear it, not today, and nor could Ron. There were some truly wonderful days when it worked out from both ends and it was a lucid, understanding Ron clutching at his shoulders and fiercely whispering in his ear that it's okay, it wasn't your fault, we're both okay, I'm sorry, I'm thankful... through his own tears. But it was only understanding, not memory, that Hermione was dead and he was insane most of the time, and the world had turned and had left him behind. And Harry didn't think Ron truly believed it, even after he had convinced him.

He never remembered when Harry visited again, either.

He told Ron about an imaginary Hermione's exploits, how hard she worked, the recognition she received, and how she missed him. "But she can't, you know, it's against the rules to leave the lab," Harry invented on the spot, and Ron nodded, that blank confused intensity surging up in his eyes- Harry thought about the grave in Chelmsford, the grave that held the bones of the woman he was making up stories about. It seemed like a sin.

"I- I had a dream, you know." Ron burst out when Harry had completed his tale about Hermione's latest discoveries and successes. Hermione wasn't a person to him anymore- Harry thought this the most unfair of all, that Hermione Granger lived on as a living breathing person in Ron Weasley's mind and imagination, and she had become a stagnant distant story in Harry's own head, because of the lies he always told Ron. And she was a goddess to both of them. "Hermione, she- she was-"

Confusion swept over his face, and Harry put a comforting hand on his friend's arm, hating himself both for his next words and the hard bone he could feel under the layers of thin cloth and flesh. "Well, whatever it was, remember it wasn't real, Ron. Nightmares never are."

"Of course." Ron nodded thrice, looking like a marionette. His face was earnest, and his eyes never left Harry's as he talked. "In my dream, Hermione- she was- asleep- they put her in the ground. She was in a coffin."

Ron breathed this like it was an obscene secret, breathed it like he was confessing his first wet dream to a friend. Harry shut his mind against the thought. "Was she?" he said.

"Yeah." Ron said, scooting closer, shivering. "She was all pale, and her hair was wet, you know how it clings to her cheek when it's wet- and they shut the coffin-"

Harry bowed his head.

"It was raining, and they shut the coffin- and then they put it in the ground." Ron said, his voice one long horrified sigh. "They put her in the ground- and then everyone raised their wands and the dirt covered it."

A beat.

"I think you were one of them, Harry." Ron said, slowly, his eyebrows meeting in a fierce scarlet slash across his face. "I think- you were behind me, I heard your voice- you said the spell, too, and you buried her-"

And then Ron had leapt out of his wheelchair, still recovering from the attack that had killed his girlfriend, screaming, and he had dug at the ground, dug like a madman, and McGonagall had stunned him. Harry knew she hated herself for it, too, he'd seen it in every line on her face at dinner, her eyes frozen like pebbles in a pale face. It should have been him.

Harry's fingers pushed up against his nose, and he realized that the gesture he had buried years ago had come back, because this was the room, and he was Harry here, the Harry who had failed Ron and Hermione in every way that mattered. "It was just a dream, Ron." he said, his voice still not quavering. "You know. It wasn't real."

The sudden smile Ron turned on him was so beautiful and happy that Harry's breath caught in his throat with pain. "Of course it was just a dream, Harry." Ron said. "I knew it was a dream as soon as I woke up. I always know when something's a dream. I have this good way of telling."

"Oh?" Harry said, covering Ron's lifeless white hand with his own, trying to smile in return.

"Yeah." Ron said, nodding. "When it's not in this room, it's not real."

The expression on Ron's face was so confident and happy and relieved that Harry had to keep his smile, even as everything behind his face seemed to fall apart into pieces.

* * *

Leigh Grimson, known as Cory Raleigh to the hospital staff, stumbled out of the room several hours later, and headed straight out towards a nearby park. There he sat on a bench- two little girls he sat next to ran away, giggling- and put his face in his hands, and found that he could not cry.

Instead, he whispered to himself, his breath tickling his palms- "Leigh_. Leigh. Leigh. _Leigh_ Grimson. Grimson._ Leigh_, Leigh Grimson_..."

It was disturbing, how much harder it was to make the transition from Harry to Leigh than it was for Leigh to become Harry. Sometimes he went through a whole day ignoring it when people called him Leigh, and he'd jump when someone called for another Harry- there were a lot of them, too, the name had been very popular in the wizarding world after 1981, and it had seen a renewal in 1999. Sickening. Get your own names, you prats.

He concentrated on simply breathing, and it was in this state that an owl found him.

The whispers alert him first, several children and a woman off at the side of the park staring up at the sky as a black shadow blotted it, growing larger and gaining outlines as it circled down. It landed gracefully next to Leigh, who stared at it, his eyes dull and red-rimmed (although he had not cried) and took a minute to sever the letter from its messenger. It stayed, its intelligent amber eyes studying him, and Leigh raised his exhausted face to the curious onlookers. "My friend, you know." he said, making no real attempt to sound jovial about it. "He's been training his owl. Like homing pigeons. I think it's finally the the hang of it."

It seemed to work- the whispers subsides, and Leigh pried the envelope apart.

The handwriting, neat and curly in silver ink, made him raise his eyebrows. He looked at the signature first, and his eyebrows climbed even higher. He'd forgotten all about that, to be honest, and he hadn't expected Malfoy to remember, either. Not that he'd really thought about it. Tomorrow. Sunday. His Sundays depended on his mood, really, there were times when he went mad and hooked up with five different people in bars, and some days he stayed home and read novels or journals and got steadily, quietly drunk.

Pureblood parties weren't really his thing- there were immediate and dangerous repercussions if you hooked up with someone, for instance- but- his career? Oh, that. Well, Payne would kill him if he missed this chance, although he didn't need to know.

He sighed, and scrawled a yes anyway. He hadn't expected to become so- good at this, this whole reporting business, he'd truly joined on a whim, and he could probably honestly say he didn't really give a damn about his job. There were other jobs, and some of them were more fun, paid better, and were better suited for his talents- the one he'd left behind, for instance. He didn't feel any real passion for what he did, he felt some days that he was just whimsically pushing at it, seeing how far he could go before he crashed.

The owl flew away. Leigh watched it go. He'd met all his deadlines for the week, it was Saturday noon, the celebration started at five in the afternoon tomorrow. He could buy some decent wizarding clothes for tomorrow right now, and finish some leisurely shopping before finding a bar and getting royally sloshed. He'd probably find his mind again in late morning, and he'd kill time by getting over his hangover the hard way. By the time five o clock rolled around, he'd probably be sober enough to have taken a shower, shaved, and dressed himself.

His weekend all settled in his head, Leigh Grimson stood up and walked away to find a secluded place where he could Apparate to Diagon Alley.

* * *

He deliberately forewent the hangover potion that day. When he arrived at Malfoy Manor at 5:08 pm that day, Apparation left his head pounding like a gong. He could swear he felt his temples pulse as he strode towards the gates, joined by a slender blonde woman who arrived a few seconds after he did.

My. For a pureblood gathering, this was rather decadently stylish.

Leigh made a beeline for the drinks- after all, everyone knew the _true_ cure for a hangover was excellent champagne.

And it was excellent. Malfoy hadn't skimped. Where was the little bastard, anyway? Leigh looked around, in marginally higher spirits. This is what the hero has come to, he thought, surprised by the lack of bitterness in his own thoughts, a drunkard and a hound. At least I'm not a jostler. Never will be.

"Mr. Grimson."

Speak of the devil. Leigh swung around, and saw Malfoy's mild surprise when he noted the bags under Leigh's eyes. He wasn't exactly in top form. "Busy week?"

"Very." Leigh said, and it wasn't really a lie. "Congratulations on your acquittal."

Malfoy inclined his head, not quite hiding the slow satisfied smile that curled his lips. "The Abernathy family, of course, is now- bankrupt."

The ones who had dragged out the war crime charges again. Leigh thought them fools, and let it show on his face, but not his pity. A measure of schadenfreude, small congratulations, and commiseration. He'd become rather good at this.

"This-" Leigh gestured at the decorations- "is not just a celebration of your acquittal, is it?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Leigh flicked his eyes upwards, but did not roll them, a feat of powerful self control he congratulated himself on. Just because I'm a halfblood doesn't mean I'm _clueless. "This shade of-" 'orange' would not gain him any points here- "burnt sienna's only used in full Naming celebrations. So your young SM is to have fifteen different middle names now, and you want everyone to know it."

He did not say 'you want everyone to know that despite this tamed Eater impression, you're still adhering to the old traditions. This is your defiance, naming your child Scorpius Galba Domitian Septimius Niger Antoninus Aemilian Trebonianus Decius Malfoy, instead of Peter or Jack or Harry. Or something.'

Malfoy raised his other eyebrow. "It's a pleasure to meet someone who still recognizes such things. To recognize the shade and immediately connect it with the ritual." His tone made it clear that Malfoy was not commending him for the other part.

Leigh smiled. "I am interested in culture."

"Draco!"

A pleasant-faced brunet strode towards them. Leigh eyed him shrewdly, and then raised an eyebrow of his own when the newcomer looped an arm around Malfoy's neck, in an almost-friendly fashion. "Congratulations on your son, old boy, never thought you'd have it in you to bang a girl."

And then he gave a lascivious wink. Leigh pursed his lips together in a futile attempt to not smile. Nearby, a black-haired woman's face turned vaguely poisonous, and a group of well-dressed females around her went silent. Astoria, then. He'd seen the pictures.

"Nax." Malfoy hissed. "Get. Off."

Leigh watched thoughtfully. Oddly, the thought that he should watch as carefully as possible so he could write a coherent article about this was his third one. The first was dark amusement at Malfoy's plight. The second, however, was that the little red jewel flashing in the man's- 'Nax's'- ear gave off a powerful stench of dark magic. Not Dark magic, which was simply what the Ministry defined as magic too dangerous and harmful for wizards, but the old definition, the real thing that didn't need any capital letters- _dark_- sentient, with a motive of its own, not just a tool to wield. Someone's been dabbling.

Leigh was a reporter foremost, but just over seven months ago he'd been a freelancer- a freelancing _what_, people asked, but there was no easy answer- investigator? Dark wizard catcher? Neither were correct, but what he did was help people who needed it and were willing to pay for it. Or unable to. He'd tried to outrun his hero complex, but when he figured out he couldn't do it he had given up in disgust to become a reporter instead, and indulge all his vices since his reputation didn't matter anymore.

But still- dark magic. That wasn't the sort of thing you could leave alone. That stuff was...

Nax waggled his eyebrows at him, and gave him a conspiratorial grin, unwinding his arm from Malfoy's skinny neck. "Anaximander Telfair. Lovely to meet you, I loved your book."

Likely Telfair had never even read it. Leigh gave him a broad grin to match, which Telfair seemed to be slightly taken aback by. "Thanks."

He said nothing more, watching Telfair, whose faltering smile picked up again as he left Malfoy's side and stalked up to him. Telfair was taller and broader, but Leigh... well, Leigh had his magic, coiled and ready to go at the slightest movement of his wand. He didn't move when Telfair held out his hand, feeling an odd deja vu- only, he wasn't eleven anymore, and the handshake could really be dangerous.

He took the hand.

The dark crooned in his ear from beside Telfair's temple, the red gem twinkling ominously. With a sudden conviction, Leigh knew it was a potion, congealed and sliced off into small pieces and attached to a person's body. A skilled Potions Master could probably make it look like a gem when it consolidated if he so wished. Leigh had gotten to know his potions.

My god, I think I have a lead.

He turned his focus outwards again as Telfair let go of his limp hand. The man was staring at his face, a little to hard for comfort. Had he noticed that Leigh had noticed? Noticed what? Normal people weren't supposed to be able to sense stuff like this- Telfair had no reason to suspect that Leigh Grimson, a hapless, mediocre wizard and reporter for some obscure newspaper, would have that sort of power. So the scrutiny was?...

He looked back, and let his eyes widen just a little bit. In the background, he heard Malfoy give a heartfelt sigh and stride off, leaving them to suffer. He heard him approach Astoria and try to appease- not her, Leigh was certain that Astoria was well aware of her husband's true proclivities- her entourage, the true audience. He must be succeeding, Leigh heard an unfeigned laugh.

"So. How do you know Draco?" Telfair said, very casually. His eyes were practically smoldering. Good god. Leigh backed off several inches, for decency's sake.

"I interviewed him two weeks ago." Leigh replied. If Leigh got him naked, he could probably plant some tracers that wouldn't come off- particularly if- this was very bizarre to contemplate, he thought, shutting down his brain for a moment. But he'd do it if he needed to- the wizarding underground was growing, and there were rumors of werewolves up for slavery- the Dark Lord's passing had left behind a huge power vacuum, and all sorts of idiots had come rushing in to fill it. The underground, the black market and such, had always existed, but when it started bartering people it really was serious. Telfair wasn't disgusting, he was quite okay, and- no Hermione, this is not a martyr complex, I do think he's hot- it would be worth it if he could do something about it.

The gem would be problematic, of course, Leigh didn't think he could possibly enjoy sex with something like that nearby. If he made it quick-

From respectable reporter and guest to femme fatale- or something- in a few microseconds, Leigh thought with some bemusement. Oh well.

He managed to keep up his end of the conversation while extending his senses to find out everything possible about this man- if he was in disguise (probably not) to his clothes (he had three wands- when the time came when Leigh had to fight him, he'd taunt him about overcompensation- Leigh stored away a few choice phrases to use) his magic (oily gray, miasmic).

"Quite the lovebirds, aren't you?" Malfoy muttered to him later, when Leigh tore himself away to fetch them drinks. "I should warn you, Grimson, Anaximander isn't- well, you shouldn't. He'll destroy your life."

Malfoy sounded morose, and Leigh saw his eyes flicker towards Astoria. Maybe he'd been wrong. Malfoy, an aspiring family man?

"It'll just be a fling." Leigh said carelessly, wondering if 'fling' was too Muggle for Malfoy. It seemed to be, but Malfoy got his meaning, of course. "One night of drunken fumbling, and snap."

"It's never one night." Malfoy said darkly. "I swear- that man-"

But then he realized (too late) that he'd said too much, and his mouth closed, lips pinching together. Very prim. Leigh quirked his lips and sauntered across the hall towards-

Telfair was gone.

But no, he'd be so lucky, when he relaxed and felt about the hall, he sensed that thick miasmic gray fog Telfair wore around him and called his magic. He turned his head- when had Telfair moved there? and received the shock of his life. Or not, but pretty close.

That's never Severus Snape.

But it was.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thank you for all the reviews. I'm entering high school next week- in my country, first semester starts in March- and it's a dormitory. I expect to be extremely busy for the next... well, three years. I'm expected to take nine or so APs in my time there. Continuation depends on whether or not my parents buy me a laptop- I can hardly see how I could update otherwise. So, well. Just a heads up.

* * *

**The Raiment of Lean Winter: **Chapter 2

* * *

Some days, when he woke up, he felt his body as if it were a heavy pile of slush and sharp bones, and his mind was a tired sluggish thing residing in the cavities nature had carved out for it. He sometimes wanted to lie there until he starved to death- he didn't think it would take long- but he'd remember reality, hard and sharp-cornered and uncompromising, and he'd stagger up (a bag of bones) and take care of his potions, the damn things he'd gotten so sick of in the last three years.

He had it better than some, he knew. His 'contract' (as if it were legal, or fair, or clean-cut) left him an opportunity to have a life- one that anyone else would have exploited. But Severus Snape had no life- his sole wish had been to die in peace, and somewhere in all that chaos he'd lost that chance, too. And he was too pathetic to be selfish enough to die now, so he went on.

Well. He'd filled his wallowing quota for the day.

He avoided his eyes in the mirror as he washed his face, and after he turned off the water he let the water drip off his chin and down his wrist, gathering momentum and deeper shades of pink as it did so. Blood welled around the sharp black edges of his Dark Mark. Somehow he had imagined it would fade... but it hadn't. Or perhaps being reused as a tool for control had set it off again. At least it didn't twinge, just bled.

He spent almost fifteen minutes hunched over the sink, staring at the drying streaks of diluted blood on his arm as if the gleam of the bathroom lights reflected in them would give him any answers. Of course they didn't. And this was getting pathetic. He straightened up, wincing at the pain in his back. He wrapped his arm in a few rolls of tissue, taped the edges to make sure they wouldn't trail, and got on with his job.

It was noon when he received the letter- he was outside, gathering cinquefoil, which the blasted owl made him scatter to the ground when it barreled at him. It was that or get mauled. It was a Malfoy owl, of course- typical. He stared at the seal like it was something disgusting that had crawled out of Longbottom's cauldron, and snarled at the owl when it tried to hover. It hovered somewhere else. It had to be enough for now.

Eventually, he opened it- he knew there would be consequences if he ignored correspondence from any of the pureblood families- Selwyn had reminded him time after time that he answered to all of them. Him most of all, but all of them anyway. Never mind that Malfoy had once been his student, one he had spoiled beyond reason. Well, his father had done most of it, but he hadn't helped. He'd tried, but he hadn't- but there really wasn't anything to regret, was there? Draco was _living_. He was married, had a child...

He pushed away all the thoughts that would follow that one and unfolded the letter, squinting- the light was too bright, and the ink was silver. An invitation- to a party- oh yes, he'd heard of the acquittal, he subscribed to the _Veritaserum_, the cheapest paper available that coincidentally also did a good job on the articles- one he'd ignored until several months ago, when it had suddenly flowered from obscurity into a possible challenger for the _Prophet's_ top position. Apparently they'd received some good funding.

Of course he wasn't going. He couldn't. He had a dozen projects to take care of, three that were extremely demanding and ate up his time and patience like nothing else, and pushed him towards a brink of frustration that he had not even known had existed until he had been pushed so far. At least the Dark Lord had valued him enough not to kill him over his projects- to Selwyn and the rest, he _was_ his projects. One that they held a very tidy threat over.

His left arm pounded, and the tissue he'd wrapped around the thing was suddenly drenched. There wasn't much pain, although the sensation was hardly pleasant and his head pounded briefly with the sudden loss.

The surface of the invitation was uneven. As if someone had written on the back with a pen, without taking care to press lightly.

He turned the invitation around.

Severus

Better come.

-Telfair-

* * *

The bastard, the bastard, the _bastard_. One fourth of his potions were the type that reacted unpredictably with stasis solutions, and only one of those wouldn't take close monitoring. Two extremely difficult and time-consuming, expensive potions _ruined_. If they wanted him to brew these things that fast and well, what was the _point_ of wasting his precious time- and then they'd blame him for not completing them on time, too. He threw on a spare pair of robes and walked down to the village.

Once, he would have Apparated.

He felt sick as he took Muggle transportation- not from disgust at an inferior culture or anything Telfair or Malfoy (Lucius, not Draco- the boy had more sense than his father) would have cited- but because of what it symbolized, his taking a _bus_to Wiltshire. He ignored the odd looks he got for his robes with cold prim dignity, feeling like wearing them was hanging on to a world that he no longer had a claim to anymore. Shackled. Left with only enough to brew and stir- wasn't that all he was good for-

Again, the self pity. It took almost two hours to Wiltshire. And it would take another two hours back, since Telfair would hardly bother to Side-Along him to his cottage just to oblige. Whatever trite thing he wanted would waste four hours of his life and two or three extremely expensive potions. Concentration on the rage, not the bitterness, nor the fear- yes, he feared, there was no shame in that, but it would be detrimental to keep on feeling. So, rage. Rage could be quelled easier than other emotions.

The result was when he finally reached the Muggle village Malfoy Manor was closest to, he was in a black temper.

He arrived a quarter after five, and the celebration was gaining momentum. He edged towards the wall, feeding his foul temper with the unease he felt at being surrounded by so many wizards- he hadn't been to a gathering of magic users this great since- well, Hogwarts, really, those adolescent fizzlings conglomerating into a seething mass of unpredictable energy- and also envy and inferiority.

He looked for Telfair. He wasn't hard to find. He was talking with Malfoy and a dark-haired man whose face he couldn't see, from this angle, seeming quite engaged. Snape refused to seek him out, venture into the center of the marbled hall and be made a spectacle of by Telfair and his cronies- no doubt they would- Snape, the fallen dog, the fallen spy, the slave, _our_slave, the traitor. He'd rather catch Telfair's eye and talk to him in a secluded place where Telfair would not be able to humiliate him publicly.

Telfair did see him, but did not seem to be inclined to leave his _fascinating _conversation to speak with him- Snape ground his teeth and made himself comfortable against the wall. Several slender witches gave him brief looks as they passed. Recognition sparked on the dull faces of some of them, but they turned away hurriedly.

Malfoy left the conversation, looking vaguely pained- Telfair tended to do that. He had not heard the declaration Telfair had made to his audience, but it only served to reinforce his grim determination that he would not let Telfair do that to him.

The man continued to speak to the dark-haired man, flirting outrageously with him. Telfair did that. If he went off to fuck him without ever telling Snape what he'd wanted from him, what the _purpose _of summoning him all the way to this opulent manse to waste his time had been, Snape would...

He would...

Do nothing, that's what. After all this, he couldn't do anything. Telfair could summon him, waste is time, leave him hanging, and live with no consequences. He ground his teeth and watched Telfair chat with the man for- how many minutes passed? Roughly fifteen, until Telfair's companion made a complicated gesture with his hands and shoulders and went off to the nearest drink table, speaking briefly with Malfoy. The brief glimpse he caught of the man's face gave him an odd start- for some reason, he reminded him of someone- but Telfair was moving towards him like a brutish handsome iceberg, destructive and deceptive, with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face, and dread replaced the rage in his chest.

"Hallo, Severus." Telfair said cheerily, as if he had _not _ruined two potions that had taken Snape a fifteen days and a month, respectively, to bring to the state they were in. "Enjoying yourself?"

He clearly was not. Snape was in no mood to be mocked. "What was your purpose in calling me here?" he said as an answer, determined to make this as quick as possible, yet keeping the vicious sarcasm from his voice. Sarcasm got him nowhere, neither in the Ministry nor among Selwyn and Telfair and the rest of them.

Telfair raised his eyebrows like it should have been obvious to him. "Well- to loosen up a bit, of course!" he walked closer and spun around, so they both had their back to the wall, their eyes to the celebration. "I know you must be having a terribly dreary time in that old cottage of yours in the middle of nowhere. Thought you deserved a break from all that. It's Scorpius's Naming, too."

Snape hoped he could escape before then. Namings were viciously boring, and leaving in the middle of one would be rude- Selwyn wouldn't leave him alone for that. "Well, congratulations." he said coldly. "I am having the time of my life."

Telfair's expression darkened, and his mind went blank with fear. "Albeit a vicarious one," he hastened to add, wondering when such obsequiousness had become part of his repertoire- Severus Snape, capable of brewing complicated potions, murder, perfidy, spite, and sucking up to people. "I can hardly join in, after all- this is not my world anymore."

The storm receded, and Telfair smiled once more, and clapped his back. "Hope you really don't feel that way, Severus- we all know your true place is here- you proved it all to us when you were just sixteen."

He kept his face bland. Telfair had not been a Death Eater, he'd been very conveniently sent on a mission to the Amazon during the majority of the Dark Lord's rise- and his fall. Telfair did not tail after the strongest player, he circled around the other circlers, and reaped small and steady benefits. He would not have taken Snape's betrayal personally, but he followed those who did, and those words were very clearly meant sarcastically, although he could detect no trace of it on Telfair's face.

"During these last years," Snape said slowly, "I have grown to prefer solitude and quiet. Also, and I mean no offense in these words, but by summoning me here you have disrupted several important projects that were commissions for Jasper Selwyn. So I wonder what was truly on your mind that was more important than his convenience- and I'm sure there are many, but so far I have not seen a sign of them."

"Well then. Frankly, I have a favor to ask of you."

The honesty was not unexpected, but he _was_ astonished that it had come so quickly. "Yes?" he sighed wearily.

"Perhaps we should talk elsewhere."

He frowned, torn- _elsewhere _meant that Telfair would not be able to viciously humiliate him in front of everyone if Snape did not acquiesce to his- 'favor'- but it also meant that should Telfair ever decide to torture him to make him agree, he might not receive any help. Without knowing more, it would be foolish to risk either. "And perhaps you could give me a hint about what this is all about."

"Hmm..." Telfair said, his eyes- no, not _twinkling_, what a horrible thought- glinting. He did love games. "An old student."

"Yours or mine?" he asked warily. He knew that Telfair had once taught at Durmstrang as a substitute- it seemed unlikely that he would be referring to one of his own, but it would be like Telfair to do that and make him think it was about one of his.

He caught a glimpse of the dark-haired man Telfair had been talking to earlier, staring at both of them with open surprise. He was holding two glasses of wine in his hands. He was too far away for Snape to see his face clearly, but that odd feeling swamped him once more- like he was seeing someone familiar. Ridiculous, of course, he had a good memory for faces and if someone looked familiar, he always knew who they were. Perhaps it was a sibling of one of his students, he seemed to be the right age for that.

"Yours." Telfair was answering. He was grinning. He expected another question.

"House?" Snape said- indulge him, that was the key.

"Del leon." the answer came, joking.

Gryffindors, important enough to garner Telfair's attention, had something to do with him? Snape searched himself and drew only blanks. It seemed harmless enough, though, and he let himself be led into a corridor, down a hallway which- he realized with a pang of unease- had no portraits. No witnesses.

As he exited the hall, he saw a flicker of movement nearby, and turned his head to see- but there was nothing. Telfair closed the door behind him.

There was very little light as they moved on, treading on soft carpet. "This used to be Narcissa's wing, you know." Telfair said conversationally. "Her own suite. There's quite a nice collection of astrolabes upstairs. She also had a garden and a laboratory. Grew her own plants. Hardly cost a thing to her, and she was good at Herbology and Potions, too. Do you want to see her lab?"

He blinked, feeling a bit dazed. "No," he started to say, but Telfair clasped his hand (like a friend- his nerves seemed to writhe away from the warm dry touch) and led him down the stairs, and Snape had a mad thought that he would never come out again.

A pair of doors swung open at their coming.

It was a good laboratory. He couldn't deny he felt a pang at it- he hadn't had something like this even at Hogwarts. There was everything, organized neatly. He recognized Narcissa's touch in the arrangement of spare phials at the first shelf, those hexagonal containers no one used anymore. There was the tang of dried ingredients, no doubt originating from the storage room at the end of the room- some of them would need ventilation, and it was those he was smelling now.

Graters, knives, mortars, pestles, pipettes, strikers, watch glasses, crucibles, tongs, stirring rods, filter funnels, stoppers, cauldrons of all shapes and sizes, and one antique silver octagonal, the kind no one used anymore. There was a muggle timer at the top of one shelf, of pale blue plastic. It must be a recent addition- Snape had no idea why it was there.

"Pretty complete, eh?" Telfair said cheerily. In his examination, Snape had already forgotten that he was there. Foolish of him. He tore his gaze away.

"You've made your point." he said in his driest voice. "What do you want from me?"

Telfair did not lose his smile. "You have a rather interesting history with powerful wizards," he said, spreading his hands. "Sworn to the Dark Lord- served him, murdered for him, spied for him... betrayed him. Joined Dumbledore- did much the same for him."

_'I did not betray Dumbledore.'_, he wanted to say. He did not. Telfair was not a man he needed to defend himself to. "Both are dead." was what he _did_ say, laconically and coldly.

Telfair's face froze at his words- perhaps I was wrong, Snape thought with deepening trepidation, perhaps he _did _have true loyalty to Voldemort, despite all his rumored dealings with Muggles, perhaps he intended to make him suffer for his betrayal. "I'm surprised you haven't caught on yet, Severus." he said softly, and the room felt very cold. "Do me a favor and _think_."

Snape thought, hating himself for having to be reminded. Gryffindor. A student of his. Powerful wizards?... what-

Potter?

What did _he _have to do with him? Potter was gone. He hadn't been seen for five years, since his defeat of the Dark Lord. Searching spells had been diverted to Antarctica, Polynesia, Korea, California, and one, humorously, to the moon. Another to the backside of the centaur statue at the Ministry. Potter had chosen an odd time to develop a sense of humor. His Gringotts trust fund had been emptied, the Potter vault left alone- a few times it had been accessed (each time it was reported, as if it was some great mystery, a man who wished to be left alone drawing money from his family account) from an ATM machine in Hong Kong, the New York branch, RSA... no one had managed to find him.

He had no significant relationship with the brat, other than owing his father a life debt and being hated by him.

"I can't think of any connection between us that you may imagine to exploit." he said.

Telfair rolled his eyes. "They all said you were intelligent."

Snape breathed.

"He was eleven. The Quidditch match. You saved his life."

A silence.

"That- is the most _ridiculous _thing I have ever heard." Snape said, his snort genuine. "You think you can exploit a- a life debt of the weakest sort- I didn't even save his life, someone else would have done it anyway! And I didn't even finish the incantation- there was no acknowledgement of the bond-"

"You fought alongside with him afterwards- there are accounts- you shielded him at several points-"

"Scores of people fought with him and protected him, it means very little- there was no meaningful sacrifice-"

"_Meaningful_- magic doesn't work that way, you know it- all it matters is that there _is_ a bond, and it can be _used_, Snape, _used_- we just need him to tug at it, and he'll come- do you know what we could do with him?"

"He won't come, the bond isn't deep enough to summon him like that."

"If you ask, he'll know, and he'll be curious or concerned enough to come. He's like that, everyone knows that."

"Excuse me- have you even _met_ the child? He's selfish, thoughtless, self-absorbed, and his famed empathy extends only to those close to him, I thought it would be obvious."

A beat.

"Do you have _any _idea-" Telfair sounded a little breathless now, a little excited, the flare of fire in his eyes much like lust, ragged with frustration. "-what we could do with him if we got him? The power he has? What we would have at our disposal if he were ours? And most of all, the favor you'd receive for having participated in his capture? Selwyn would let you go, Severus, he'd free you from his hold! And you could have this- anything like this-" he swept his hand at the laboratory, dead Narcissa's laboratory, its pristine completion. "-with what we would reward you with-"

Snape barely knew what to say. "First of all, Telfair," he managed at last, when the other man's sputtering excitement had faded into hungry expectation. "As I said, there's no guarantee he'll heed my call, or even recognize it for what it is- the boy was always oblivious to the finer nuances of magic. Second, what makes you think you _could _exploit him? As you say- as it is undeniably so, the boy has power- what makes you think you could overwhelm him? Third- how can I trust you to keep your end of the bargain, that the end result of my cooperation will be my manumission from Selwyn's control?"

Telfair strode to a nearby table to sit on it, legs crossed. As he did, there was a small slapping sound, like something light hitting the ground. Snape looked around, but there was nothing to create such a noise. Telfair seemed not to hear. "You have a fair point. It's a big gamble, really, but there's no harm in trying it, for one thing- and for your second point- well, it's easy, we have his friends. Or friend."

He meant Weasley, Snape realized, and the realization jarred him like ice water. Potter's brain-damaged sidekick. "You kidnapped him from St. Mungo's?"

"We will, if we succeed." Telfair said sedately. "If he comes, you'll approach him, talk to him, put him off his guard. We'll Stun him from behind, or something, and then show him his friend- I thought about using Polyjuice, but frankly I think having the real article would be better- we don't really have anyone who could imitate a lunatic like that. We'll threaten to kill him if he doesn't cooperate."

"What about Imperius?" Snape said.

"You know full well he can resist it."

"What- oh." Snape said, helplessly acting to the end. Caught. He knew it even before Telfair had finished his sentence, by the way those eyes had narrowed, the shoulders tensed an inch. Telfair's intuition was excellent, and by that one harmless suggestion Telfair had somehow realized Snape's motives in this conversation- which was odd, because Snape himself didn't know what he intended to accomplish by circling around the issue. "I see. I'd forgotten." But there was no convincing him.

Telfair was examining his face, very slowly. His eyes lingered, pointedly, mockingly, on his nose. Snape ignored him, doing no such futile foolish thing as judging the distance to the door- there was no escape- Telfair had a wand.

"You don't want to?" the man asked. Anaximander Telfair, Durmstrang graduate, the jovial lascivious pureblood arriviste, was folding aside his smile, bringing out the fangs. His words were measured, quiet. "Well. I thought you'd like the idea, to be honest, Severus. I thought you hated the boy."

"I was on his side." Snape said, not knowing how this would help his situation in any way but saying it all the same.

"Doesn't mean you had to like him to do it." he remarked, leaning back, twirling his wand in one hand- when had he retrieved it? Dread welled up in his throat, choking off anything smooth he might have said. "Winning side and all. You chose well, you know, no one really blames you for it. But I thought you'd have more sense than this."

Snape said nothing.

"You know full well that if you didn't cooperate, I'd force you to anyway."

He still said nothing.

"I was hoping you wouldn't do this. I had a real charming catch upstairs- he'll be very offended after I take care of this mess, it'll take me some time to talk his temper away."

"Charming. Even with all these plots brewing, your first priority is always sex."

Telfair laughed, loudly, not bothered at all. "As if you'd know what that felt like." he got up, and walked up to Snape. They were roughly the same height, but Telfair was broader than he was, stronger. Not that it counted, when he had a wand. "Do you _like _him, Snape? Always knew you were a fag, but I didn't know you were a pederast, too. Couldn't paw at him under Dumbledore's nose, so you kept it quiet? Is that it? If you helped me, you know, I'd let you do whatever you wanted with him-"

Snape stood, frozen in disgust. Telfair was angry, viciously angry, and he was in very real danger. "-or was it some great romance- _Se_verus _Snape_, the most heartless bastard in the world, pining after the savior-"

"Shut the hell up." Snape spat, noting in some distant part of his mind that it had been roughly a year since he had used profanity, mild as this one was. "If you're trying to goad me, I'm sure you'll have better ways to do so than revolting me with images of myself lusting after some disgusting Gryffindor idiot."

_Where did you get that idea? _Snape added silently, in the privacy of his mind.

How can I get out of this?

"Because, Snape, I really can't imagine why you're protecting him." Telfair said.

"He was my student." Snape answered, throwing up his Occlumency barriers as brutally as he knew how. Telfair staggered a little on his feet, a dazed look entering his eyes, then being swiftly replaced by ugly fury. "And this business has so much potential to go wrong, I'm sure you understand why it is impossible for me to acquiesce-"

Telfair drew something from his pocket- a long silver blur that buzzed as it ground across the zipper. Snape sprang away, forgetting rationality- that Telfair would catch him anyway- obeying his instincts, fleeing. Telfair lunged, a chain held in both hands-

Snape lashed out, and missed completely- although it took him a second to realize, as Telfair landed on his torso, driving the air out of his lungs, knocking his head back onto the stone floor- and he held the chain against his face- the coldness of it burned, but so startled was he at the invisible thing his foot had met- something flat and vaguely soft, like someone's stomach- that he barely noticed the sensation of whirling away as the chain took both of them- no, _three_ of them, something warm was locking around his legs, an invisible stowaway.

He landed in a tangle of bodies and confusion- Telfair swore and leapt away, the chain clattered onto a floor. It was dark where they had arrived, but a dim light source nearby illuminated the outlines of a now-visible person- a man- who disengaged himself from Snape's limbs, where he had been hanging on. He tried to sit up, head swimming from where he had been knocked to the floor, trying to make sense of what had just happened- obviously, he'd been transported here, but someone had followed-

It was him, the man Telfair had been flirting with earlier, the one whose oddly familiar features had given him a pause. He'd had his hair tied, but it had come loose during the chaos. He stood there, looking at Telfair, who stared back, obviously shocked.

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Reviews are always appreciated. And I'd kill for critique.


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